Then the boy came back, and at their very second meeting had
told her that he loved her. Then he had----But there was no end to the things
he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of
Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant,--
that was rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the best in her stock,--
she used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and now and
again--a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to
crawl to his mistress's feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever,
except--here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve of her
nightgown--the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too.
Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had
he not cancelled the debt by not writing and--probably kissing other girls?
"Maisie, you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down," said the wearied voice of
her companion. "I can't sleep a wink with you at the window."
Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the
meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do.
The moonlight would not let her sleep.
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